Diary Of A Delinquent

by Michal Medows

I didn’t mean to nearly torch Our Lady of Perpetual Mitzvot. Honestly! I know there’s no chance of you or anyone else believing me, but with the passing of Shavuot, the Festival of Weeks, I just felt the urge to clear the air.

Setting the school on fire was not my objective. I didn’t intend to even lay a scratch on that domed $8 million edifice. My presence was completely innocuous; I was only on the eighth floor to swipe a test and what better opportunity than during the school play. (“The Ten Commandments.” Typical.)
The eighth floor — “penthouse” of our school — is off limits. Except for occasional freshmen who wander up the extraneous staircase in quest of the non-existent pool (at

the direction of a few mischievous seniors) the floor is completely deserted. At least that’s what we’ve been told. But why accept every mantra fed to you? Isn’t the entire point of education to learn for yourself?
Heaving myself up the rickety ladder to the eighth floor, I found my nerves kicking in. No wonder I couldn’t think straight. My arms and legs felt like Jello, the frigid air blasting from the a/c didn’t help either. Focus, I commanded myself, but to no avail. My body craved a cigarette. Like an addict, I needed my dose of courage.

Alright, just this once, I conceded. Fingers trembling, I managed to keep my lighter steady enough to connect it to my cigarette. After a few drags, I reluctantly tossed it into a nearby cardboard box. Now to work. I needed a copy of that history exam in order to raise my GPA to have a shot at Princeton. Glancing around, I noticed the multitude of boxes I had to search through for my grade’s test and wondered if it would help to pray. Then I let out a shaky laugh. Asking God to abet a thief? Didn’t exactly match up with my image of God. At least, not the one I’d been taught.

Bingo. Excitedly, I opened the box marked “History Department — 2009 Finals.” Resting on my heels, I sorted through them, a silly smile plastered on my face. Just locate the correct test, photocopy it and replace everything. Grinning devilishly, I whispered, “Thanks, God,” as I made my way past the boxes to the photocopy machine.

I suppose it is karma that my thoughts of God coincided with the first shriek of the fire alarm. Hurriedly, I flung up the top of the photocopier, slid the first sheet of the test under and jabbed the button until I finished. There were only six pages. The sirens still shrieked. Give up! my battered ears urged. But I wouldn’t. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, I reminded myself. Remember those fables your first grade teacher imparted? The message was always to persevere. (And not to steal, too, but that one was just cheesy.) I quickly replaced the original in its proper box. No one will ever be the wiser, I thought smugly.

It was prime time to pull the heist, although it wasn’t customary for the administration to choose the middle of the school play for a fire drill. Maybe one of the science teachers botched an experiment again. Or perhaps some potheads hiding out in the basement were unaware that there’s a smoke detector on each floor ... even on the eighth.

Taking a relieved deep breath then coughing, I glanced around, and noticed for the first time that the smoldering cigarette I had carelessly tossed aside was hissing and sizzling. An emerald green liquid that had been slowly dripping from a glass jar into the cardboard box was reacting with the cigarette’s heat and that was not a good sign. Only then did I detect the chemical smell wafting through the air.
I did not panic. I did, however, dash to the ladder stuffing the Xeroxed test papers in my bag as I scrambled down as fast as I could. I whipped my way down the stairs until I reached the balcony. No one was there to hinder me; the school had already been evacuated. I peeked out. Lights flashing in the street ricocheted into the lobby and firefighters were conferring in deep, raspy tones. I caught snatches of “chemical leak,” “eighth floor” and “send up HAZMAT.”

I turned my mind to the problem at hand: escape. The main entrance was out as were the fire doors. That left only the back entrance near the garbage heap. If I managed to sneak out unnoticed, I could simply blend in with the rain-soaked students shivering outside. It was a flawed plan, but it was the only one I had.

It worked. Once outside I breathed in the wet, fresh air. I had been concentrating so hard on my task that I hadn’t noticed the chemical leak that I had inadvertently caused with my discarded cigarette. Only then did the rain register and as it did, my teeth began to chatter.

The kids were too busy talking to notice my sudden appearance. Glancing around wistfully, I foolishly wished for someone I could tell. I had gotten away with the biggest heist in this school’s history and had to keep it a secret. It was like hitting a hole in one on Yom Kippur, I privately smirked.

I shuffled my feet, debating what to do. I could leave now.... Or I could ... no. No way would I do something as insane as turn myself in. There was morality and then there was stupidity. Besides, both God and I would know there would be no remorse involved. Whirling around, I began walking away. I needed all the time I could get to study those pilfered sheets in time for tomorrow’s final. Flipping through the pages I muttered, 1.C, 2.B, 3.E. ...

When I got home there was a message on my parents’ e-mail (of course I check it) from school. An experiment got a bit too smoky in the science lab so the school was temporarily evacuated. Firefighters were called in, just to be on the safe side. But I knew better: the administration wouldn’t want to reveal that the (nonexistent) security on the eighth floor had been breeched.

As for the major test the next day? I wouldn’t know. I came down with pneumonia that night, caused by exposure to the toxic fumes and the rain. By the time I returned to school and sat for the make-up exam, the test was changed.

Michal Medows is a senior at Ramaz Upper School in Manhattan. She doesn’t smoke and has never stolen a test.

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